Literary criticism is generally bunk. Nonsense. Usually based on self-serving post-intellectual bullshit.

Ah, Los Angeles! Dust and fog of your lonely streets, I am no longer lonely. Just you wait, all of you ghosts of this room, just you wait, because it will happen, as sure as there's a God in heaven.

Someday, as an exercise, you might ask a writer to give himself the questions he wants to answer. If you really want a writer's opinions, you have to ask for them. What you read might surprise you.

One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Buker Hill, down in the middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed.

You are nobody, and I might have been somebody, and the road to each of us is love.

Like my father, I am very impatient. I have a strong bullshit detector. I may finish one book in twenty that I have started.

Literary criticism is generally bunk. Nonsense. Usually based on self-serving post-intellectual bullshit.